


Tentacular.

by Aja



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has kind of gotten addicted to the tentacle sex. Eames is maybe a little reticent as a result.  Warning: EXTREMELY NWS art embedded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tentacular.

**Author's Note:**

> art by platina; extrapolated from this prompt on the kink meme: ["Eames has agreed to play out one of Arthur's kinks. Arthur wants Eames to forge himself into having tentacles."](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/7339.html?thread=14737067#t14737067) The premise, as you can see from all the art there on the thread, is that Arthur has kind of gotten addicted to the tentacle sex. Eames is maybe a little reticent as a result. IDEK, YOU GUYS. LOOK, THE POINT IS: TENTACLE PORN.

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur arches up and lets one of Eames' tentacles curl around his leg. It moves slowly, prodding between the sticky flesh of Arthur's calf and Eames' thigh, sliding wetly against Arthur's skin and making him shiver. Eames' eyes are half-lidded, like it's almost too much. Arthur almost wants to snap at him to keep them open, to not miss a moment of this--but then he realizes, as Eames' tentacles skate along his sides and over his back, brushing lightly, gently, that Eames is more connected to him like this than ever.  
  
"How does it feel," Arthur breathes, "to touch me like this. Fuck, tell me, Eames, tell me right now." He's so close to just sinking down onto Eames' cock, but there's a gloriously fat tentacle prodding and pressing against his ass, and Arthur is having trouble choosing which one he wants inside of him. The tentacle head is rounder and wider than the one Arthur knows and loves, though he's pretty sure it's the same one he had stuffed in his mouth not too long ago, and he's rapidly coming to know and love it as well.   
  
What he does know is he wants to get fucked, and he leans back into the pink frond that curls itself around his shoulder, trying to urge Eames to get on with it. But Eames is in no hurry at all; his mouth is parted and he's breathing heavily through his nose, his chest shuddering in regular waves that lets Arthur know he's trying his best to stay calm, not to just throw Arthur down onto the bed and fuck him in every orifice at once.  
  
"God, you feel warm everywhere I touch you," Eames grinds out. His throat went dry ages ago and he sounds raspy, spent. Arthur fucking loves him like this. "You're like something ripe and ready to burst in my hands," he says, and accents the words by squeezing Arthur's hip. The tentacle wrapped around Arthur's leg gives a soft press, too, and Arthur shudders all over.   
  
"Then, I think, Mr Eames, you'd better pluck me," says Arthur, and he leans down to rake his tongue across Eames' swollen lips. Eames is always so responsive, always parts for him, his lips soft and perfect and eager to be bitten or sucked or anything Arthur wants to do to them; but now all Arthur wants is to kiss him into open-mouthed oblivion, to center himself there against Eames' lips and rock against him for ages, just like this, the two of them connected at the heart and at the hip, at the thigh and lips and cocks and arms and legs and every other appendage.  
  
Eames lets out a ragged sound and slips both arms up, pulling Arthur down against him, and Arthur follows and shudders against his body, wishes he'd gotten more of Eames' clothing off before they got this far, because now he can't stop long enough to bother with fabric, not when he just wants to kiss and touch and maybe find that spot under Eames' jaw that makes Eames thrash beneath him every single time. He breaks the kiss, panting more than a little, and pushes back against the wide head trying even more urgently to gain an entrance inside of him. He can feel it slicking precome against the rounds of his ass, and Jesus, that's hot.  
  
"I--god, Arthur, do you want--"  
  
"Yes, yes, fuck yes," Arthur says. "Just like this. Will you feel it that way," Arthur gasps, because he's still not sure--he can't  _imagine_  what it must be like for Eames to-- to have--  
  
"God, yes, I feel you everywhere," says Eames, forcing out a laugh and pressing a dazed kiss to Arthur's hair. "I just don't want to overwhelm you."  
  
"Oh, my god, shut up," Arthur snaps, because  _seriously_ , "Shut up and fuck me and touch me and let me rub you off and make me suck you and hold me down and --oh, my  _god_ , Eames--"  
  
\--because he's not even done speaking and Eames uses those fucking powerful thighs to just  _wrench_  Arthur over, throwing off his equilibrium completely; only instead of hitting the bed a thick warm pulsating tentacle catches him and supports his weight, holding him there a few inches off the mattress, and Arthur's legs jerk apart, pulled taut by, Jesus, tentacles that weren't even  _there_  moments before, and the cockhead at his entrance positions itself there and then  _pushes_ , and Arthur expels a half-gasp, half-yelp of shocked arousal as it slides inside him, one slow slick movement, deep, then deeper, then impossibly  _deeper_ ; and it's huge and warm and not at all painful, but so fucking  _solid_  inside him that for a second it's the only thing in the fucking  _world_ : just the heavy weight of it pulsing against him, muscle throbbing against muscle, and Arthur desperately, frantically trying to reshape himself to fit around this new part of his body.   
  
He doesn't realize his eyes are squeezed tight until he realizes that he can only hear Eames' heavy, distorted breathing, that he can't see the wrecked look on his face. Arthur opens his eyes, because this is never something he wants to miss.   
  
Eames' face is red. His skin and his lips are glittering with moisture and his hair is falling in his eyes and plastered in clumps against his forehead. A wave of affection rolls over Arthur, so heavy that it translates into a thrust, and he gives into it, tilting his head back and letting Eames' tentacle hold him, letting the moan just sink out of him. As it does, another tentacle, almost hesitantly, brushes against his mouth, and Arthur can't help it; he laughs, long and low, tugging Eames down for a kiss that manages to brush the side of the tentacle as well as the corner of Eames' mouth.  
  
Because only Eames,  _only_  Eames, would still be hesitant right now, after months and months of fucking every way they can think of, and weeks of -- of  _this_ , of crazy tentacle sex every chance they get, and Arthur so fucking on edge for it all the time that sometimes Eames has to drag him into the corner of the warehouse and kiss him, let Arthur get his mouth around Eames' cock, just so Arthur can  _think_ . And only Eames would even be holding himself apart the way he is right now, even as he's kissing Arthur back so eagerly, with every appendage he's got thrumming against Arthur, inside Arthur, quivering for release.  
  
"Jesus," Arthur murmurs, shifting closer, trying to convey reassurance and not the fact that he's seriously about to start begging if Eames doesn't move right now. "You've got me. It's okay, Eames. You can let go."   
  
It's Eames' turn to laugh, and the sound of it suddenly turns Arthur's stomach cold, turns every one of his ribs over in his chest. It's a broken, wry sound. Arthur hates it.  
  
"That's just the thing," says Eames. His voice is rough. Arthur stares up at him, shocked, and Eames swallows, looks guilty and torn and then incredibly, incredibly vulnerable, and adds: "With you, I don't ever want to."  
  
It takes another shocked moment for the cold in Arthur's veins to slowly turn over and over again and then seep into rich bright warmth everywhere he can move. He lets out a shaky breath, and then says, "Fuck. Thank god. Jesus, I thought--oh my god, come  _here_ ," and tugs Eames down against him, wrapping both his legs around Eames' thighs so they're connected from ankle to forehead. Eames laughs back into the kiss, shaky and embarrassed, and Arthur kisses his mouth, his lips, his cheek, his throat, everywhere, and slowly the massive warm thing inside of him starts to move easily, rocking slowly against the walls of his body, expanding as he lets himself relax, almost as naturally as the rise and fall of Arthur's own breathing; and Arthur holds on and grinds against Eames' beautiful cock, which is exactly what he wants waking or sleeping. He tries to hold on, but Eames' face holds too much wonder right now; he's clutching Arthur so tightly Arthur can feel the hairs on his arms sliding against Arthur's sides when he moves, and all Arthur really wants is to make Eames come just like this, by every means Arthur has available.  
  
He relaxes into the pink arm curling around his back and pulls the end into his mouth, sucking on the head and unable to prevent a smile when he sees what that does to Eames. He reaches down for the tentacle at his thigh, and then for the other sliding around his waist, and takes one in each hand. It means Eames has to do more of the work in rubbing their cocks together, but Eames gets the idea right away and lets his appendages take all of Arthur's weight, letting the cock in Arthur's mouth and the cock in Arthur's ass both fuck him in steady rhythm while his hands find Arthur's hips and pull them roughly together.   
  
The next thrust of his cock against Arthur's is also the first brush of his prostate, and Arthur jerks and arches straight into Eames' body, stretched out and taut and helplessly needy. Eames laughs out loud and says, "Oh,  _Arthur_ ," and kisses his throat as Arthur tries to remember to move his thumbs over the warm, leaking cocks in his palms, to stroke and tickle and touch; and then the cock in his mouth prises his jaw open even further and sinks in almost to the back of his throat, and Eames is just murmuring incoherent things and running his tongue over Arthur's collarbone, so warm and eager and awkward that Arthur has to fight to keep from smiling around the head of his cock. He tongues the underside, moans against it, and waits for it to hit, waits for that moment of complete submersion, because he can almost,  _almost_  feel it now, and yes,  _yes_ .  
  
He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, and lets it wash over him: all he is, Arthur, point man, dreamer, disappears, and he's nothing; he's empty and full at once, a perfect vessel for Eames to lose himself inside of, his mouth and his ass and his hands and his heart and whatever Eames wants, whatever, everything, anything, and it's terrifying and perfect, and the hottest thing Arthur's ever fucking felt.  
  
He wrenches away from the blowjob, letting the tentacle linger wet and moist against his cheek, and gasps, "Come, I want you to come all over me right now," because, oh, god, he wants and he wants and he  _wants_ \--   
  
\--and Eames says, "Oh, my  _god_ , you've no idea," and comes in Arthur's ass and on his cheek and in his hands, and Arthur opens his eyes and watches Eames' face--his half-wrecked, half-hopeful expression, his eyes on Arthur's, reaching down and fisting Arthur even as he comes in five directions at once, all over Arthur, all over himself, laughing and mouthing weak kisses against Arthur's jawline.  
  
And Arthur suddenly realizes  _why_  this is the hottest thing in the fucking world, and it's so sharp, so brilliant, so blinding and crystal-clear, that he comes just from the sheer, unholy surprise of it.  
  
________  
  
Afterwards he holds Eames as he shakes and rocks insensibly against Arthur's wrung-out body, both of them laughing a little ungently and struggling to place misdirected kisses anywhere they can fit them, as Eames slips out of Arthur's body and returns back to himself: two strong legs and two strong arms, wrapped firmly around Arthur on the ruined bedsheets.  
  
Arthur tugs Eames against him, pillowing him against the crook of Arthur's shoulder. He knows it's bony; he also knows Eames won't mind.  
  
Eames murmurs something incoherent and lays a kiss against the hollow of Arthur's throat.  
  
Arthur smiles. "Funny thing," he says, stroking the sweat-soaked strands of Eames' hair away from his damp forehead. "Turns out it was never about the tentacles at all."

 


End file.
